


A Cat Named Sandwich

by alcego



Series: Captain Sandwich [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ''Everyone's Fine And The World Isn't Ending'': An AU, Established Relationship, Fluff, Less Than Canon Typical Mentions of Worms but More Than Would be in a Non-TMA Fic, M/M, adopting a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21969178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcego/pseuds/alcego
Summary: “Do you hear that?” Martin asks, hovering just behind Jon and looking down at Sandwich adoringly.“Yes,” Jon says, because it would be hard not to. Sandwich purrs like the world is ending, like the earth falling out from beneath Jon’s feet, and he realizes—distantly, dimly—that he loves this cat.Not more than the Admiral, as that is simply impossible, but he loves her nonetheless. He pulls his hand back, blinking slowly, watches as Sandwich blinks back. He glances at Martin, and says, “This is why I didn’t want to pet the cats.”“Why? Because you’d like one?”“Because I’ll likeall of them.”Martin laughs. “You’re the only person I know who’d say that like it’s a problem.”———Or the one where Jon and Martin adopt a cat.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: Captain Sandwich [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581469
Comments: 29
Kudos: 245





	A Cat Named Sandwich

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays everyone! This fic is a direct sequel to [Warm and Fuzzy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21855175), but you don't need to have read that one to make sense of this one. Just some good and simple cat-adopting fun. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary here :).

Jon is altogether too familiar with the archive. Used to the quiet, the stillness, the distinct lack of worms within the dry, dark halls. He can lose himself there, forget that there are three other people in the basement with him, and melt into the silence.

Here, now, in the bustling chaos of the shelter, Jon realizes that there is a polar opposite of the archives, and it is not hell like he’d thought. The archives are their own special sort of hell, after all, and would fit into most of the seven levels of the ethereal sub-basement.

Jon is startled out of his thoughts by a cat’s plaintive yowl—something so _loud_ as to be distressing. Except that when he turns to face the talkative feline, he sees that it is named _Sandwich_ , and has a little placard on its door reading, “I’ve learned I can get attention by yelling. Please only pet me when I’m quiet.”

Jon stares.

Martin walks up behind him, covered in ginger fur and grinning foolishly. “Who’s got your attention?”

Jon shakes his head. “Its name is Sandwich.”

“So it is.” Martin squints at the cat’s placard, then humphs. “ _It_ is a _she_ , by the way. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“She’s a lovely cat,” Jon says, and the funny thing is that he means it. Loud as she is, the cat is a striking combination of white and black and orange, a rare calico whose colors stand distinctly on their own, barely muddy along the edges. Her eyes are a bright yellow, and her whiskers are long and healthy. Jon thinks about petting her, but changes his mind.

He shouldn’t get attached yet. There are plenty more cats to see.

Martin notices his hesitation and grabs a bottle of hand sanitizer. He squelches a hearty drop into Jon’s hands and raises his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you really came here _just_ to look at cats.”

“You know I didn’t,” Jon says sullenly, but there is no darkness in the words. He feels alive, now, moreso whenever he’s around Martin. And… well, she _is_ a pretty cat.

The volunteer had said they could open the cages and hold the cats, so long as there isn’t a placard instructing otherwise, so Jon rubs the sanitizer into his skin and opens the cage. Sandwich sidles up to his hand and sniffs, ears flicking back at the lingering smell of hand sanitizer—and then she _purrs_ , and Jon melts a little.

“Do you hear that?” Martin asks, hovering just behind Jon and looking down at Sandwich adoringly.

“Yes,” Jon says, because it would be hard not to. Sandwich purrs like the world is ending, like the earth falling out from beneath Jon’s feet, and he realizes—distantly, dimly—that he loves this cat.

Not more than the Admiral, as that is simply impossible, but he loves her nonetheless. He pulls his hand back, blinking slowly, watches as Sandwich blinks back. He glances at Martin, and says, “This is why I didn’t want to pet the cats.”

“Why? Because you’d like one?”

“Because I’ll like _all of them._ ”

Martin laughs. “You’re the only person I know who’d say that like it’s a problem.”

“We can only adopt one cat, Martin!” Jon says, and he feels his eyes go wide, feels his stance widen slightly as if to brace him and his many emotions. He doesn’t know how to react, how to feel about being drawn to another living thing. He thought having Martin and Georgie and the Admiral would be enough, but clearly it’s not, if his heart reacts like _this_ to a cat named _Sandwich_.

Martin holds out his hands placatingly. “Okay, okay. I _get_ it, Jon. Really. But… hold the cat.”

But Jon is already reaching for Sandwich, holding his hand for her to sniff. She rubs her head against his palm, purring loudly, and Jon knows he’s a goner. Yes—in theory he should look at more cats, see more of their personalitites, make sure he’s choosing a cat that he’ll be happy with for the next decade or so. As he looks at Sandwich, feels her purr into his palm and wind her tail around his wrist, Jon knows that she’s the one.

He hasn’t even picked her up yet. He scoops her up easily, rubbing her idly behind the ear as he holds her to his chest. He turns to face Martin, whose grin is entirely too wide to be a response to a cat named Sandwich.

“She likes you,” Martin says, and he’s right. Sandwich does like Jon.

“I like her, too.”

“Then it’s decided?”

“Not quite yet,” Jon says. But he doesn’t put Sandwich back. Just holds her, rubbing her ears, her neck, her back. Sandwich wriggles in his arms and pulls herself up onto his shoulder. Her little claws dig into his skin, as she is just a tad too short to make the stretch from his arms to his shoulder otherwise. Jon gasps, bites back a wince, then comes to his senses and boosts her all the way up.

Waving off Martin’s concern, Jon reaches up to ensure Sandwich is safe and steady. She takes to her perch gladly, using Jon’s shoulders to get a good look at the cattery. Jon tries to imagine what she must look like, tries to see himself through Martin’s eyes. Sees himself, smiling brightly, stroking a cat named Sandwich, leaning just so and giving her a sturdy platform. He sees it reflected in Martin’s adoring eyes, in the sweet curl of his lips, the tilt of his brow.

“Do you, uh, want to hold her?” Jon asks, stumbling over his heart as it worms its way up his throat. He hasn’t acclimated to this, yet. To being important in more than just an academic sense. He… thinks he enjoys it, really. He thinks he’s allowed to.

Martin reaches out to stroke Sandwich’s back, and his hand brushes Jon’s shoulder. Jon’s skin burns through his shirt, sending off a pleasant, malleable heat. Sandwich purrs louder, somehow, seeming more motorcycle than cat with the vigor of her pleasure.

“She’s soft,” Martin observes as Sandwich turns about on Jon’s shoulders so she can better rub her cheek against Martin’s large, kindly hands. “And really sweet.”

They stand like that for a minute or three before Jon looks at Martin—really _looks_ at him—and asks, “What do you think?”

“I really like her,” Martin says. “But, ah, maybe we should look at some other cats first? Just in case we get along with one of them better.”

Jon raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “Is it possible to get along with a cat better than we’re getting on with Sandwich right now?”

Martin hums thoughtfully, scrunching up his nose as he feigns contemplation. Then he clicks his tongue and says, decisively, “No.”

“Shall we make it official, then?” Jon asks, and somehow the words feel more intimate than they should, considering the topic. But Sandwich still purrs on his shoulder, kneading now that Martin has found the best place to rub her chin, and Jon knows that there is no way he can feel too intimate in this moment.

This is his family, after all.

———

They walk back to their apartment, feeling giddy in the cool, damp afternoon. Martin holds Sandwich’s crate with reverence, taking great care to ensure she never so much as bounces against his leg. Every time he jostles her—when he steps off a curb, or takes a turn too quickly, or stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk—he apologizes profusely.

Jon, whose own load is considerably less valuable but no less important than the cat herself, lets his thoughts take over. He knows the walk home, and knows even better how quickly he will get annoyed with Martin’s senseless apologies. He’s realized, now, why Martin apologizes. Jon’s connected the dots between what little of his past Martin has cared to share and the way he acts now.

Jon’s annoyance isn’t with Martin, not really. Not so much as it is with Martin’s mother, and Elias, and everyone else who has every made Martin feel like crap. Jon is more irritated with himself than he is with Martin.

“Jon? _Jon_ , where are you going?”

Jon snaps to attention, sees the buildings lining the road, sees how they _loom_ , guiding him down the street. _Take the next turn_ , they seem to say. _Go to the Institute._

It’s madness, obviously. There’s no way the buildings can communicate with him. And even if the buildings did curve—which they certainly do not—that would be no reason for Jon to be so affected by them.

“Sorry,” Jon says, blinking at the buildings. They don’t stop leaning, but the their malevolence is less intense now that he notices them. He can’t help but realize that if he follows the buildings he will find himself at the Institute’s huge, brickwork building, staring up at the windows and swearing that they seem more like eyes. “Just muscle memory.”

Martin looks dubious, as Jon has no real reason to take this path to the Institute, but his concern for Jon is overruled by his concern for Sandwich, who meows pitifully in her crate. 

They make it the rest of the way to their apartment without incident. Martin apologizes his way up the stairs, although halfway up Jon loses track of whether Martin is apologizing to Sandwich or to the tenants unfortunate enough to have chosen this moment to try to leave the building.

Then, finally, they’re at the door.

Out of everything, this proves the most difficult part of the journey.

“Watch the door—the door! Martin! _Martin._ ”

“Sorry! Sorry.”

Sandwich meows, and Jon sets her down inside the apartment, well away from the door. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles. “Martin didn’t mean to let the door hit your carrier.”

“That’s right,” Martin says, plopping a large bag of cat food on the floor next to the couch. He crouches by the crate, holding the bag of shelter-recommended cat toys close to his chest. “It was an accident, and I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

Jon gives Martin a look, then, as certain patterns start to fall into place. He makes a promise to himself not to let Martin apologize so much. It will be good for both of them.

“Sandwich is fine, Martin,” Jon says, and he feels that new understanding leak into his voice, making its pitch drop into something dry and careful. He clears his throat; this is no time to be dealing with _feelings_. Not when Sandwich needs to get settled into the apartment.

“Now, the lady did say to keep her in a bathroom for about a week, just so she can get a feel for the place, but I don’t know how I feel about that.” Martin sticks his finger into the cat carrier and smiles as Sandwich butts her head against his finger. “Do you want to stay out with the rest of us? Hm? How would you like that?”

Sandwich purrs, as she is so wont to do when someone pays her any amount of attention. She purrs more than the Admiral, Jon realizes as Martin opens the crate to scratch Sandwich behind her ears. 

Jon and Martin share a glance, and they agree, wordlessly, effortlessly, that they will ignore that one piece of advice. Sandwich will stay out and about with them.

Leaving Martin to cuddle with Sandwich, Jon pours cat litter into the plastic tub that will serve as Sandwich’s litter box and sets up her food and water dish over by their kitchen. Martin coos and pets Sandwich, then sets her in the litter box. “So she knows where it is,” he explains.

They watch Sanwich explore the apartment, tail up, ears forward, whiskers twitching, and follow her from room to room. They whisper quietly, so as to avoid disturbing Sandwich, but her ears always flick back to them. She knows they’re nearby, and she doesn’t mind. If anything, she likes that they’re near; she rubs against Martin and Jon’s legs as she leaves their bedroom, heading back into the open living area.

She hops onto the couch, jumping as she realizes the cushion goes back farther than expected. She sniffs the cushion, tense, whiskers flicking back and forth, before licking it once and continuing to explore the rest of the couch. She jumps onto its back, sees Jon and Martin watching her by the door to their bedroom, and meows at them.

“I think she wants attention,” Jon says.

Martin hums agreeably but doesn’t move. He leans on Jon’s shoulder, knowing from experience that Jon will hold him steady, that Jon enjoys the weight and warmth of him. Jon revels in the knowledge that Martin trusts him with this small act of care and wraps his arm around Martin’s waist. He doesn’t bother hiding his smile.

“So. What are we going to do about names?” Martin asks, rubbing Jon’s back.

Finished with her inspection of the back of the couch, Sandwich takes large, proud steps to the end of the couch. She stares at Jon and Martin, eyes bright and full of light and love. But there is an authority to her stance, to the stretch of her tail, the twitch of her ears.

“I think we should keep her name,” Jon says. He sees Martin prepare to protest, and cuts him off. “But with one change! A little one, though. Just- well. Something simple.”

“What are you thinking?” Martin asks, wary.

“Well, you know the Admiral. I was thinking something along those lines.”

“Private Sandwich?” Martin laughs.

“No,” Jon says, pretending to be serious but struggling to keep his lips from curling into a smile. “ _Captain_ Sandwich.”

“How’s that sound, Sandwich?” 

She meows loudly. It could just be a coincidence, but Jon wants to think otherwise. “Yes ma’am,” Jon says. He looks at Martin, smirking. “How about it?”

Martin sighs, but there’s no real heat to it. No disappointment. Just bemused humor. “Captain Sandwich it is.”

“Do you hear that, Captain?” Jon asks, leaving Martin’s side to visit Captain Sandwich’s perch. “You’ve gotten a promotion.”

She purrs at his proximity and butts her head into his stomach, rumbling pleasantly. Jon laughs as he reaches up to scratch the Captain behind her ears, just as she likes it, and finds his heart grows larger with each passing moment.

Martin moves to the kitchen, washes his hands, then joins Jon by the couch. He sits on the couch, just far enough from the Captain that she won’t be scared off. Not that Martin needed to worry; the Captain notices his approach and turns to him, ears pricked, tail held straight up, and Jon knows that Martin is her favorite.

He can’t complain. After all, Martin is his favorite, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I was absolutely floored by the response to the first fic in this series! Thank you so much to everyone who left comments and kudos; it means the world to me. 
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoyed this installment of the Captain Sandwich series! I finished it up late Christmas day and got it published very early on boxing day (without editing or beta'ing... RIP) because I of how excited I was to get this out to everyone. Please let me know what you thought here or [on tumblr](https://alcego.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Happy holidays! Hope everyone's having a good time (and if you're not, I sincerely hope this gave you a little something to make it through the week).


End file.
